Then she walked in: a young Black woman with worn shoes and a calm, unwavering gaze that made me uncomfortable. I hired her fully expecting her to fail like the rest.
Instead, within an hour, my six daughters were clinging to her, laughing loudly for the first time in years. I stood there, stunned. She had done what twenty-eight professionals—and even I—had failed to do.
At forty, I was a self-made billionaire with investments spanning real estate, logistics, and renewable energy. What I wasn’t was a successful father.
My daughters—Eliza, Margot, Vivienne, Hazel, Juliet, and Audrey—were eight-year-old sextuplets, all brilliant, all carrying grief after losing their mother three years earlier.
The nannies came with impressive credentials and left shaken. Some tried discipline. Others tried gifts. A few tried affection so artificial it insulted the girls’ intelligence.
The house became a war zone of slammed doors, shattered objects, and relentless shouting. I told myself the nannies were incompetent, but a quieter fear followed me everywhere: that I had broken my children beyond repair.